Secret Santa
by moms5thchild
Summary: One name, one gift... Sometimes knowing who you have to buy a gift for doesn't give you any more ideas than anyone else


Hello boys and girls, time for my yearly Christmas story. I hope you like it as much as last year's tale of Yule tide cheer.

Peace, Love and Happiness

Mom

**Secret Santa**

_"Whose name did you get?"_

It was the second Monday in December when Lieutenant Fisk put the entire detective division's names in a bag, put the bag around Hank's neck and marched through the Eighth Precinct. Every one of his people from traffic, robbery/homicide, vice and all the other departments stuck their hands in and pulled out one slip of paper. This was their giftee, the one and only gift they would be bringing to the Precinct for the Holidays.

* * *

"It's a damn_ Christmas_ party!" Marty huffed at the political correctness that had seeped into every aspect of December. "I bet there weren't three wise rabbis handing out bagels, borsch and gefilte fish to the baby Myron." 

"You are a bigot, you know that," Tom said as he brought the coffee over to his partner.

Tom Selway and Marty Russo had stopped for lunch at a little diner on Elizabeth Street. It was one of the few times they actually got to put their heads together in peace. It wasn't that help from Dunbar and Betancourt wasn't appreciated, but Marty missed being the 'go to it guy' in the robbery homicide. As much as he hated to admit it, Marty had to relinquish that title to Jim Dunbar.

"Damn, it's just, well, damn!" Marty slapped his heavy white mug down on the scratched table top. "I want to just go back to the way it was before Super Blink joined us."

"What's wrong with you," Tom stared hard at his partner. "I thought you were getting along with Jim, why all this whiney crap?"

"I got his name in the Secret Santa. What the hell to I get the guy who has everything and keep it over ten and under twenty dollars."

Tom smirked, "you've been shopping already. The mighty Marty Russo is finally out of ideas."

"I don't gift booze and I hate giving generic stuff like chocolate. I like giving stuff that means something." Marty pushed his suddenly tasteless coffee aside. "Last year, I got you that blender so you could make smoothie thingies with your girlfriend and the year before I got Connie Suarez a pair of those fuzzy mittens when she kept saying her fingers were always cold."

"And you got no idea what to get Jim."

Marty sighed. "I keep watching him, listening to see if he says something that would at least give me a hint. My stand by gift idea doesn't work for him."

Tom finished his coffee and put down the mug with a bump. "Nah, you can't buy him a book, Marty."

Marty restarted his tirade. "Damn, I love getting books at Christmas…"

"Because your Dad was a school teacher and he taught you to love to read," Tom finished the sentence he's heard many times before.

Marty leaned back; spread out his hands and grinned. "Reading broadens the mind, enriches the imagination and the larger volumes are especially good for killing cock roaches."

"I am going to pretend I didn't hear that. Let's get outta here."

* * *

Karen couldn't believe the way Marty watched her partner. When ever Jim walked in or out of the squad room Russo's eyes were trailing him. Marty listened quietly to all their conversations and even tried to eavesdrop on Jim's phone calls with his wife. 

"It doesn't take a genius to figure out whose name Marty got," Karen said to Selway.

Tom didn't even raise his head from his paperwork. "If he bitches at me one more time about getting Jim's name I am going to stick him in the holding cell with the next transvestite hooker that gets arrested... and I hope she has cold sores!"

"I might have something to save Marty then…" Karen went back to her computer and sent a quick e-mail to Russo. When he next checked his e-mail in box Marty stuck his head up and thanked God, all the Saints and Karen for the suggestion.

* * *

December 22 was a Friday. From now until the 26th there would only be a skeleton crew at the Eighth unless an emergency brought the on call officers in. There were more red suspenders, Santa ties and flashing necklaces than was actually appropriate for a government office, but no one complained.

The desk sergeant, Ned Silverstein, the designated Santa this year, started ringing his jingle bells at one o'clock. "Oy, you schmucks, let's get this party started."

And the party started "Keep it down to a dull roar, people." Fisk's voice rang above the increasing noise level.

"Only after you sing 'Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer," Connie Suarez yelled back.

"Isn't that a traffic problem?" Fisk was enjoying himself too much. "We have two hours unless something comes up. Be professional and do not answer the phone saying Santa's Toyland. That almost got me fired last year."

Slowly Marty got past the flaky short bread cookies and the incendiary rum balls to where Jim Dunbar was sitting, talking to Jack Pulaski from the property department.

"Hey, Dunbar," Marty waited until Jim swung his face toward him.

"Yeah?"

"Merry Christmas and happy hohoho," Marty tapped the box on the back of Jim's hand. "I'm your secret Santa."

Jim raised his eyebrows, took the box and shook it. "Nothing in here that's gonna explode when I open it?"

"Nothing I could get for under twenty bucks."

" 'scuse me, Jack. I got something to show Marty at my station." With that Jim got up and threaded his way through the crowd back to his desk. Once there, Jim opened up the bottom drawer and pulled out a shoe box wrapped in bright silver paper. "I got your name this year. Here, we'll open them up at the same time… that way if one of us goes up in flames, we both go."

"Sounds good to me," Marty ran his over the slick metallic paper and curling blue ribbons. It was almost a shame to open it, he wasn't sure he would be able to hide his disappointment from Jim if he got the department's equivalent to socks and underwear, a coffee mug. "We rip on three… one… two… three."

Marty dug his fingers into the taped ends of the box, tore through the paper and tipped off the lid. Books, the box held three old books, one paper back and two hard cover with their dust jackets still intact.

Jim's voice broke the silence. "I called your Grandfather in Daytona Beach. He told me you collected old mystery novels. Did I get the right ones?"

Gently Marty lifted out Rex Stout's 'Might as Well Be Dead', Frederic Brown's 'The Screaming MiMi' and 'The Whistling Hangman' by Baynard Kendrick. He was practically breathless, "where did you get these? I've been looking for these for ages."

"My wife works in publishing, remember? You Granddad gave us a huge list of what you wanted and Christie managed to find these. Can you even try to be more poaaible hiding place told her between ten and twenty bucks, but I bet she got these for less. She's got contacts."

"I don't care, I really wanted these." Marty looked at Jim and realized he hadn't finished opening his gift. "Come on, Dunbar, tell me what you think."

Slowly Jim finished peeling the paper off the tube in his hands. Carefully he ran his fingers up and down the embossing on the cardboard, but couldn't get an impression off the package so he popped the top off and gently poured the contents on his desk.

"Lincoln logs?" Jim's fingers traced the notched plastic dowels that were supposed to make part of log cabins when assembled correctly. They were larger than Lego and sturdier that Mechano Sets he dreamed of having as a boy. "You got me Lincoln Logs?"

"Yeah, I watch you sit there and play with pens and that damn stress ball all the time, I figured you might as well put your time to use… constructively. You know, like constructing a bank or a fort or a cabin."

"I had a set of these when I was a kid." Already Jim's nimble fingers were setting down a square foundation for his log house. "That was when I dreamed I'd be an architect some day."

"There are windows and doors too," Marty bounced up and down on his toes as he watched Jim find the framed door and rearrange the logs to get it in place.

"Hey, Dunbar got Lincoln Logs." Santa Silverstein's voice rose above the din. "I love Lincoln Logs."

"Get your own, Santa," Jim laughed as he slapped the desk sergeant's hand away. Turning his head toward where he tought Marty was standing Jim mouthed the words thank you.

Marty just laughed and held his books to his chest as the other detectives began to swarm around Dunbar's desk to check out his new toys. The smile never left Jim's face as everyone around him started talking about the building blocks they once had and, in some cases, still did.

Next year, if possible, Marty was going to go to Florida and visit his Grandpa and Grandma Russo and avoid being in the Secret Santa if at all possible.

fin


End file.
